Longest Winter
by that-which-yields
Summary: When Duo wakes up sobbing from dreams of haunting, Prussian blue eyes, he knows it is time to go home. It's been a year and a half, far longer than it should have been. And he has kept his promises. Companion piece to Colder Weather, from Duo's perspective.
1. Chapter 1

Current Pairing: former DeathWing (1x2x1)

* * *

The first blue streaks of sunrise paint the wall above the stove, misting a mahogany braid in melancholy hues. No one should be awake at this hour, but here he is. The kitchen is silent, accusing and still, echoing with memories that he is preparing to leave behind. Duo Maxwell clenches his teeth around another sob, not wanting to wake Heero. Not wanting Heero to see him. Because if Heero sees him like this, soul torn and broken, he will beg Duo to stay. And Duo doesn't think he can find the words to say no any more than he can find the words to say goodbye.

The note shakes in his hand, fingers trembling uncontrollably. He pins it to the countertop, staring down at the words that blur in his liquid sight. _I'm leaving. I'm sorry_. It sounds insensitive. Of course it does. How could he logically find the words to tell Heero, _I love you, you're my soulmate, but I'm leaving you anyway. _He can't leave that door open, can't leave Heero with the sort of heart-lifting hope that will just turn bitter as the years pass without mention of his name. Duo isn't coming back. He can't afford to.

He requested a mission off-colony, and the notice came through just past midnight that he is expected at the spaceport at dawn. Undercover drug infiltration. Deep undercover, the kind that prevented any contact with the outside world. He won't even have a check-in with Preventer until the six month mark. Expected time span was a year, at least, possibly up to five. And he'd asked for it.

And now… forgetting himself for a moment, he slams his fist into the counter, crumpling the note. Now he's going to walk away from Heero Yuy, the greatest love he's ever known. He can't stop himself. Snatching a pen out of the drawer, he stares down at the spineless piece of paper. Clinical. Sterile. Dragging a shuddering breath in through his nose, he scrubs away an errant tear, smoothes out the paper. The pen hovers above the page, tip quivering with his anguish.

A single drop trickles down his nose, cascading over the tip. It splashes onto the scribbled words, the only punctuation to his sorrow-filled _I won't call._

He heaves his black duffel onto his shoulder, the bag he's been filling for months, and slips the note under one of the magnets on the fridge. Pressing his lips together to muffle the howl of grief, he shoves his feet into his boots and slips out the front door. He doesn't look back. He can't afford to.

* * *

The first month is a blur. The gang he's infiltrating is full of heavy hitters, with a beastly initiation ritual. He's been informed in no uncertain terms that he'll have to be doubly vigilant if he wants to protect his braid, which he refuses to cut off pre-emptively. He spends the first few weeks holed up in a nicer section of L2, not that there's really a nicer section. The days are a haze of long, grueling runs, regardless of the malfunctioning weather controls, and bruising sessions in the gym with the weights or a relentless trainer. At night he sinks into a bath with gritted teeth, massaging aching muscles and prodding gingerly at rupturing blisters.

He flops into a chair, flipping on the tv. Reception is shit on this hellhole of a colony, stations a mix of decades old reruns and spotty coverage of multi-colony news. But it's noise, something to fill the hollow emptiness of the apartment. He traces his fingers absently over the thorny black lines of the ink lining his forearm. The tattoo is still tender to the touch, finished just yesterday. Preventer would probably scold him if they caught wind of him appropriating a week of time to get a series of tattoos done… but he doesn't have a check-in for another six months, and he doesn't give a damn. And besides, it will help him fit his gang member image that much better. It has been a hell of a week. He decided on the design, found a relatively reliable shop that wouldn't leave him with an incurable disease, and then settled himself in for the week. Sitting in that chair for hours, every single day, gritting his teeth while he stared at the ceiling and repeated that it was for remembrance.

A ring of stars around his elbow separates the lower half of the sleeve from the top. Five stars – Wing ZERO, Deathscythe, Heavyarms, Sandrock, and Nataku. His forearm is branded with a tribal cross, the lines heavy and dark against his skin. The swirls around the cross are reminiscent of fire and smoke, names twined into the misty tendrils rising around the spread arms of the crucifix.

His bicep is splashed with color, his Gundam taking a knee on a ground marred by spilled blood. The thermal scythe arches over its shoulder, a brilliant emerald glow, planted by one gauntleted hand. In the other fist, Deathscythe holds a crumpled banner, pressed into the dirt by its knee. The banner trails across the splatters of crimson, twisted and tattered, branded with the solemn vow: _death before dishonor. _Duo pulls up his sleeve to stare at the image of his oldest friend, meeting its glowing green eyes, to fix his eyes on the secret that his Gundam conceals. In the shadow beneath the Gundanium figure, half-obscured by blood, there is a single wartime designation etched into the grit. HY01.

He will always carry Heero with him, a self-inflicted scar on his heart, and it is only fair that the world will see it too, if it ever cares to look.

* * *

Duo casually backhands one of the new members of the gang, his ebon-inked forearm flashing in the shadow of the abandoned warehouse. The young man falls to the ground, clutching his split cheek, as Duo carelessly adjusts his rings. It's been six months. He isn't making the progress that he intended, so he's stuck in this piss-poor excuse for a colony for at least another six. Probably, with the way things have been going, another year.

He doesn't see the point, honestly. There are always going to be gangs on L2, in the poverty-stricken sections of every colony. There are always going to be drug runners and mob bosses and weapons manufacturers. Taking down one gang and related drug ring, no matter how large, isn't going to solve the problem. It's going to create a void for another, meaner gang to rush in.

Slumping into a chair, he watches the kid get up, scrub the blood off his face, and slink away. He hates this shit. Having to blend in. Having to be an asshole. Resorting to the low-life, amoral bullshit survival techniques he used as a street rat. Not for the first time, his mind drifts to Heero. He wonders what his former lover would think of him now, holding court in a broken-windowed, boarded up building in the slums, draped across a make-shift throne of crates and blankets.

He managed to save his braid as he fought his way up through the ranks, ending up as Mischief's Second. He doesn't want to lead the gang – despite his goal of dismantling the illicit activities, he doesn't want to leave a group of street kids helpless and leaderless when he returns to earth. He tries not to think about that – what will happen when this mission is over, when he has leave to return to headquarters. Tries not to contemplate the blood on his hands, so much in six months, God only knows how much more by the time he can wash his hands of this assignment. Tries not to wonder if, should he ever meet Heero again, the other man will judge him for the lengths he had to go to in order to make his cover convincing.

He runs one hand through his messy bangs, pausing to re-align the half-dozen rings climbing the shell of one ear. A diminutive cross dangles from the lobe, replacing the one that used to hang from his neck. He hadn't dared bring it in with him – anyone with half a brain knows that possessions don't mean shit to a gang. If you have it, you'd better be ready to give your life to keep it. The only person excused from this is Mischief. You don't steal from the leader of the gang. Even Duo isn't exempt, though only the newbies try anything anymore. He is beginning to believe that attempting to pickpocket him is some sort of hazing ritual, since he appears vaguely non-threatening.

He is still smaller than most of the gang members, even at 20. Between the malnutrition and plague as a kid and the g-force from 'Scythe as a teenager, his growth as a child was drastically stunted. He is lethally muscled, not an ounce of fat on his slender frame, but swathed in layers of clothing he seems to be just another scrawny orphan. Which is one of the many reasons why new recruits end up with a broken wrist shortly into their initiation. Duo does his best to keep it clean, to cause easy breaks that will heal fast. He can't afford to refuse to discipline them – it would paint him as weak, raise questions as to why he is protecting them.

Scratching idly at his newest tattoo, he contemplates when I'll be able to leave. If he stays for much longer, he's going to run dangerously low on empty skin. Whenever he gets bored, he finds himself at the door of the tattoo parlor, tucking his gun into the small of his back and inking yet another memory into his skin. The latest is a jet black wolf howling at the moon. It's a harvest moon, sickly and yellow, like the eyes of the beast, with a tiny winged figure soaring in its shadow. He grazes fingers over that white-feathered blip and sighs. Fuck, but he regrets leaving.

* * *

When Duo wakes up sobbing from dreams of haunting, Prussian blue eyes, he knows it is time to go home. It's been a year and a half, far longer than it should have been. And he has kept his promises. He never called Heero. Not when his heart felt like it was going to stop in his chest from the agony of losing the Wing pilot. Not when he fought the urge by slinking into the dusky confines of the tattoo shop again. Each and every one of his tattoos has some reference to Heero, no matter how obscure. He has two full sleeves and a backpiece now, a testament to just how often the Asian man crosses his mind.

Logically, he is well aware that Heero will probably turn him down. Will refuse to let him past the front door, if he even opens it after peeking through the peephole bubble. Still, he can't keep himself from hoping. He has done as much destruction and sown as much disarray in the gang as he could. Mischief has lost a great deal of credibility – and that hurt too, since the young man reminded him so much of Solo. Would Solo be like that, if he had survived the plague? Or would he have gotten out, escape the sucking pull of poverty and drugs?

Preventer is recalling him, finally. Gave him leave a month ago to clean up the residue of his presence and then head home. He shoves his possessions into that infamous black duffle bag, now a faded, bleached brown color from sunlight and filth. The kids stop by in a steady trickle, saying goodbye. Some are genuinely upset to have him gone. He protected them, tried to keep them off the drugs they sold, tried to get them some scraps of an education. He was good for them, really. Some will be thrilled to see his back, desperately coveting the position of Mischief's Second. There isn't anywhere to go in the gang. You are either Mischief, Second, or nothing.

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he works his way through the last farewells. Mischief is the last, greeting him at the door. They don't say anything. Don't mention what probably would have developed if not for the shadow of Heero, looming large as his ivory Gundam over Duo's soul. Duo quirks a tiny smile. Another regret. Another burden to bear. Finally, he holds out his hand. They clasp wrists, squeezing, bearing down until it brings a bittersweet ache. It's the only way to know they're alive. And Duo wonders if he'll ever know that he exists without the permanence of agony.

He leaves the warehouse without a second glance, feeling the weight of Mischief's solemn green eyes on his back. He doesn't look back. He can't afford to.

* * *

In the shuttle, he retrieves the battered metal box from his duffle bag. He'd retrieved it from its hiding space, deep in the haunted rubble of what used to be the Maxwell Church orphanage. People didn't go near it, whether out of superstition or respect for the former church, and he figured that those who passed it on to him could guard it better than he could.

Wrenching open the box, wincing at the protesting shriek of hinges, he reverently lifts his cross from the velvet-lined confines. He lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled silver surface as he murmurs a prayer. He wonders if they would be proud of him, Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. Wonders if Father would be pleased with the name he's made for himself, if Sister would be proud of the path he follows.

Sliding the chain around his neck, he shivers a little at the icy metal landing on his collarbones. Sister Helen's face floats across his vision. Would she be more disappointed by the fact that he loves a man, or the fact that he left that man behind?


	2. Chapter 2

Duo steps into the airport terminal, feeling inordinately alone. Squeals of delight pierce the air as little girls greet their fathers, home from extended business trips. A man sweeps a beautiful woman off of her feet, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. There's even a mother leading her little boy to the baggage claim by one hand, where a smiling attendant unlocks a carrier. A puppy bounds straight into his laughing arms, and he turns to his mother, limbs filled with fur, a Christmas morning smile on his face. Duo swallows hard, watching the merriment, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His phone vibrates at his hip and he twitches his Preventer jacket aside to peer at the screen. At least his ride is here.

Stalking away from the reunited families strewn across the airport, he curses the drive that pushes him ever onward, the screaming voice in his head that constantly whispers _run, run, run. _

A uniformed Preventer agent leans against the black SUV outside the terminal, arms tight across his chest. He comes to attention as Duo appears, snapping a sharp salute to the braided man. Duo flicks his fingers against his brow, briefly, rolling his eyes as the man jumps to open the back door. They always send the most formal, uptight motherfuckers to retrieve him. He tosses his bag into the vehicle, grinning slightly as it skids across the leather seats, and then shucks his jacket and flings it atop the battered duffel. His smile fades as the agent catches sight of his heavily inked arms, as the man's face twists into a slight sneer.

"I don't believe that's regulation," the man comments quietly. Even in his disdain, the stuck-up bastard knows well enough not to cause a scene in uniform.

"Bein' a Gundam pilot isn't regulation either, buddy, but I don't reckon anyone asked your opinion." At the agent's shocked expression, he lets the darkest, most malicious smirk curl his lips, lets all of the lethality of Shinigami shine out of his eyes.

The man skitters away from him, stumbling over the curb, barely catching himself. He ricochets off the bumper as he flees for the driver's seat, not daring to take his eyes off of the braided man who wears Death's face over his own like a well-fitted mask. Duo slips onto the chilled leather seats, draping himself across the ebony surface with careless grace. The agent meets his eyes in the rearview mirror for one moment, face drained of color, before he slaps at the controls to roll up the privacy screen.

Duo shakes his head. Pathetic fools. They think they want to go toe-to-toe with the devil. They think they want to challenge him. Then he tears off the veil of humanity that he wears for the world and they rapidly alter their opinion. No one wants to fuck with Death.

He leans his forehead against the window, breath fogging up the glass as the car begins to move. The familiar scenes flicker by, soulless buildings with windows like haunted eyes, people staggering down the street in expensive suits or torn clothes. This whole fucking city is the same – the same bullshit capitalism, the same fucked up zombies tangled in the gears of the same goddamn machine. He remembers, abruptly, why he returned to space. Why he requested an assignment so far away, on a colony he swore he would never go back to.

The buildings shrink, gradually, replaced by neat lines of trees. There's nothing but shrubbery for a good mile around Preventer headquarters. The public sneers at the precaution, railing about Preventer not deigning to be a part of the rest of the world. No one remembers when Preventer had a headquarters in the center of their grand city, when someone decided that the peacekeeping organization needed to be sent straight to hell. The bomb leveled a city block, killed too many innocent citizens. It never would have happened if the agency hadn't put everyone in danger by making the main street a prime terrorist target.

So they let people talk – let people accuse them of being isolationists. Let people bitch about the invisible police, like they're a force of ninjas or some shit. But the reality of it is, when some crazy bastard marches down the road to Preventer with a machine gun, the only people who die will be the agents. Duo bites down on a growl. He'll never adjust to hearing the grunts and mumbles when he steps out of a Preventer car in his uniform.

The car enters the circular drive and a surge of anxiety bulldozes Duo. He hadn't planned much past the returning stage. What is he supposed to do now? Fuck it. The helpless mask isn't his game. He'll head straight for Heero's office and see where they stand. See if anything can be salvaged. See if he even had a reason to come back. Without Heero, he might as well consign himself to the hell of the furthest colony out. He doesn't think he can stand to see Heero, day after day, living a happy life without him.

His hand lingers on the doorknob as the vehicle purrs to a halt, fingers shivering slightly. Heero's face floats in his mind, solemn and still, waiting. Waiting for him, in a way that he dares not hope that the Heero of reality actually is. His free hand toys with the end of his braid, caressing the tail to soothe himself. Forcing a cleansing breath into his stuttering lungs, he swings the door open and marches toward the front door, black bag hanging over his shoulder.

The familiar, almost clinical scent of cleaning agents and lingering gunpowder assaults his senses as he strides through the door. For an instant, he almost thinks he smells a hint of molten steel and gun smoke, that scent that haunts his dreams… but a quick sweep of the lobby reveals only a few Agents, none with piercing Prussian blue eyes.

His gaze fixes on the elevator with unveiled hunger. He is accosted mid-stride by a uniformed security officer placing a restraining arm across his path. The man skitters away as Duo turns frozen violet eyes on him, startled by the malice in those cold, cold orbs.

"Excuse me Sir, I need to see i.d. before you go further."

A cutting glance at the quivering man encompasses their reflection in the mirrored elevator doors, and he realizes what the ignorant creature must see. A slender but well-muscled man, arms sleeved with tattoos, tight black shirt clinging to his skin, non-descript cargo pants and boots giving no hint of his position. He'll forgive the man for not noticing the Preventer jacket slung over his shoulder, as, like most people, the guard's eyes have caught on his tattoos. He flicks his badge out of his shirt, watching the officer's eyes flare with alarm at the name on it.

"Agent Azrael! Forgive me, Sir. I didn't realize it was you, you… look different than you did when you left."

"Undercover'll do that to ya," Duo comments quietly, the ice in his eyes thawing. It's not the guard's fault that he's wound so tight.

"Yes, Sir, of course." The man shuffles his feet awkwardly, belatedly allowing his arm to drop. The silence thickens, and he lifts a hand to scratch at the stubble on his face. "The pilots are still on the top floor."

Duo tips his head in thanks and finally reaches the elevators, jabbing impatiently at the button to summon the lift. His braid twitches against his back as he bounces on the balls of his feet, barely leashing the urge to run the stairs instead of watching for the infernal device.

Too soon, he is stepping out between stainless steel doors onto a corridor filled with offices, people hurrying between doors and behind desks. The hum is familiar and calming, the scent of roses indicating Lady Une's presence. He makes his way to one of the offices, carefully, trying not to interrupt the ebb and flow of the top Preventer Agents. They never did decide whether Une kept the Gundam Pilots on her own floor as security for them, respect for their part in the wars, or wariness of their former terrorist status. Duo, for his part, had managed to slither out of a sky high corner office, worming his way into a cubicle near the obstacle course and munitions training section. No point in him being far away from his planetside job, he argued.

His hand shakes as he raises it to knock. Fuck, but he wishes what was waiting behind this door. A murmured assent meets his gathered courage and he pushes the door open, hesitantly, watching the heavy wood reveal the room. Two desks. One empty, one…

Trowa Barton glances up at him as the door swings aside, and pales. His face drains of color, leaving emerald eyes shockingly vibrant in his whitened face. The pen slips from his fingers to tumble to the floor.

"Duo," he breathes.

"Ya look like you've seen a ghost, Tro. Haven't been gone _that_ long."

"I… we…" Trowa draws in a steadying breath, some of the blood returning to his cheeks. He blinks, then scrubs a hand over his face. "It's been a while, Duo. It's good to see you back."

As Trowa's face returns to normal, Duo studies him, their words winding through the familiar chatter of long friendship. Trowa fills him in on the cases that they have been assigned and closed while Duo was away, the new drama in the various Preventer departments, Relena's issues as Queen of the world. His eyes hold a quiet glow of pleasure, a tiny quirk of a smile quick to grace his lips. He moves easily within his skin, the composure of a man who has come to terms with himself.

"You look happy, Tro," Duo comments finally, watching a surprised pleasure wash over Trowa's face. Laugh lines form at the corners of his eyes as he smiles, the expression more genuine than anything Duo has seen since Quatre left. And Duo has to wonder for a moment if the politician has walked back into the acrobat's life, finally realizing that Trowa is far too good of a man to leave out in the cold.

"I am. I am… very happy."

Neither of them have mentioned the atom bomb in the room, the one subject that both men have avoided. There is an itch beneath Duo's skin, a restless urge, and he fights it with every word until it bursts out of him.

"Heero?"

Something twists in Trowa's expression, something hard and painful and bitter. He manages a smile, barely, the brightness vanished from his eyes. Glancing down at his desk, he leans over to retrieve the fallen pen.

"He's not here today. But he is in the city."

Duo wonders why Trowa looks so bruised at the mention of Heero's name, why darkness eclipsed the happiness on his face like a falling star. And he doesn't know what to say – Trowa isn't giving him any hints here. Does Heero want to see him?

"How is he?" Duo settles for those words, though he wants to ask so much more.

Trowa lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. "He's been good, lately." He pauses, as if weighing his words. "It took a long time."

Duo winces at the reminder. He can only imagine how bad Heero had been in the wake of his leaving. He was Heero's first lover, first love. The first person Heero let in far enough to touch more of him than his skin. And he had left him behind, as effortless as thought. Does he have any right to appear in Heero's life like an unanswered prayer, like a redelivered curse?

"Do you think he'd wanna see me?" Duo asks softly, his heart aching.

"I think that's up to him."

Trowa reaches into a drawer of his desk, rummaging around for a moment. His hand emerges with a familiar keychain – a tiny Deathscythe figurine that Heero gave to Duo on their first anniversary, a handful of painfully recognized keys. Their house, the locker at their gym, the key to Heero's office, the key to Duo's. The keys he'd left in a steel bowl on the counter when he slunk out in the pre-dawn darkness. So this was the gambit then. Take it, and see where he stands with his former lover, or ignore it, and spend the rest of his life regretting the loss. His fingers close around the keys.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and he wonders why Trowa wears the mask of a man who's just been knifed in the ribs.

Duo Maxwell wanders around the streets of the town he used to call home, trying to gather the balls to go to his former house. He doesn't know what he'll find there, who he'll find there. If Heero has another lover, if Heero will even be there. At least Duo knows that he's not away on a mission. But… he plops down on a bench in a rain-drizzled park, scraping at the mist that etches droplets across his bangs.

He knows damn well he has no right to be here. That he should leave well enough alone and shoulder the responsibilities for his actions. That he should absolutely not wind his way down that tree-lined block to the house with two deadbolts and a numbered lock on the front door, with a bowl on the counter for his artfully tossed keys.

He hears the siren song of that grey-sideded house, the abject longing to finally be in a place where he can rest again, feel safe again, feel loved again. Even if that love isn't there anymore, it was once absorbed into the paint of the walls, the fabric of the couches, and he knows that house will always feel like a sanctuary. It's a sanctuary for Heero too, though, and he doesn't know that he should violate that safe space with his presence.

Bowing his head, he laces his fingers through rain-dampened hair, heedless of the fine haze that coats his clothing. He can sit here and second-guess himself until the stars explode, but he needs to just suck it up and face down the barrel of reality. His heavy sigh mars the silence of the park. The sun will be setting soon. Heero will be heading home. He should probably be waiting. Best to not even give Heero the chance to refuse him entry.

Duo knows that Heero isn't there the second his foot crosses the threshold. The house is empty of his presence, empty of the solemn security that fills a room when he enters. There's something about Heero's solid reliability that is supremely comforting, a sense of calm that he exudes through his skin.

Duo wanders the house, touching furniture, brushing fingers across curtains and fixtures. Nothing has changed. A year and a half, and nothing has changed. The same dishtowels slung through the handle of the refrigerator, the same comforter draped over the worn blue sheets of Heero's bed. He opens the door to the spare bedroom, the one that was his before Heero became his partner in more than just name, and sucks in a breath. All of the little trinkets he left, scraps of memory, pictures torn out of newspapers still taped to the walls, a jacket still draped over the footboard of the bed, towel still hanging on the doorknob to the bathroom.

His heart rises into his throat, throbbing painfully. Has Heero been waiting? After all this time, does he still have a place in Heero's life? Hope blossoms in his chest, fragile as an orchid, and he cradles it close as he shuts the door. He pads back down to the living area, eyes catching on a familiar sweatshirt dangling from the arm of the couch. Trowa must have left it here.

The scratch of paper catches his attention, and he shakes his head with a rueful smile on his face. Heero still hasn't managed to deter the mailman from shoving the mail into the doorjamb. He pops open the door, tossing a wave at the mailman's intrigued glance, and catches the mail as it falls. Locking the door out of habit, he strolls back through the achingly familiar entryway, dropping the mail on the counter. He doesn't bother to glance through it, afraid of what he will find. A letter from a lover, a bill addressed to someone other than Heero. Any indication that Heero has moved on. He wants to hear it, if he has to, straight from his ex-lover's lips.

The minutes drip by. Duo paces the carpet in front of the wide bay window, ears pricked for any indication of Heero's return. His braid lashes behind him with every sweep of the room. Each passing car sends his heart plummeting to collide with his gut, each departing roar a nauseating mixture of disappointment and relief.

Finally, finally, comes the car that doesn't perform a wide sweep, rushing toward the house and as quickly flying away. Finally comes the light tread of footsteps that only a Gundam pilot would hear, comes the soft click of locks being released. The door slides open, so slowly, and Heero steps into the room.

Duo drinks him in. The sunset floods through the window, painting his lover with an array of flame that makes heat pool in his belly and his heart surge against his ribcage in wanton eagerness. His always tousled hair glows in the fiery light, cheeks lit from the briskness of the wind and the gilding of the sun. Key ricochet off of the edge of the bowl, landing in the bottom with a ringing sound. Heero plants a heel against the door to kick it closed, reaches back absently to flick the locks before lowering his hand without securing the door.

His eyes are far away as he shrugs out of his jacket and finally, finally notices Duo. And then he freezes, like prey caught in a trap, as his face drains of color. He sways on his feet, throat working soundlessly, as his eyes fill with hope and horror. And Duo, not knowing what to do, strangled by the weight of too many emotions, raises one hand in an entirely too casual wave.

"Hey there, 'Ro."


	3. Chapter 3

It's been a week since Duo Maxwell returned. A week of the most excruciatingly awful, heart-wrenching silence. Whenever Duo and Heero find themselves alone in the room, tension rises like a tide, swamping them and erasing all hope of conversation. Tiny glances, stolen when the other isn't looking, a pointedly cleared throat, a pen twitched between anxious fingers. They try to avoid it, or at least Heero does, darting out of the room with some half-assed excuse. He's actually learning to like coffee, thanks to the desperate desire to have a reason to leave. Duo doesn't mind it, finds the rising friction comforting and familiar. It reminds him of the spiraling heat that would emanate from a room when they were together.

Duo's been staying with Heero, in the room that used to be his, the room that hasn't changed since he left. Lying awake at night, hearing Heero shift on the slightly creaky mattress, hearing the leveling out of his breath through the thin walls as he drifts into sleep. It's killing him, knowing that he could be there, could be reveling in the midnight heat of Heero's skin, could be drawing those soft sighs out into gasps and moans. And he's not ashamed to admit more than one night of losing himself in memories, clenched in a lotion-slicked fist, biting down on the pillow to muffle his cries of pleasure.

They're sitting in the living room one night in companionable silence. Trowa hasn't been around since he returned, leaving Heero to occasionally vanish with him after work, returning to the apartment with flushed cheeks and dreamy, sated blue eyes. Duo has no right to, but fuck he resents seeing someone else put that look on Heero's face. What makes it even worse is that it's agonizingly clear that Heero is still in love with him. Granted, he's obviously in love with Trowa, as well, but Heero can't hide the muscle memory of his love for Duo.

The lingering glances, the way his voice still drops when he murmurs Duo's name, how his eyes automatically catch on Duo when he enters a room, even if Trowa is in there as well. He lets his hand drift across Duo's knuckles when he passes him a pen, lets his fingers graze the tail of Duo's braid as they pass in the sleepy kitchen light of morning. When Heero catches himself, hand midway to Duo's shoulder, discovers himself leaning unconsciously toward the heat of Duo's skin, he jerks away as if electrocuted. Duo pretends not to notice, ignores the pained expression on Heero's face when he pulls his hands away from Duo.

Duo lifts his eyes from the pages of his book, catches Heero, newspaper forgotten in his lap, fixed on him. He raises an eyebrow, intrigued by the heat in Heero's eyes, licking his lips unconsciously as a flush spreads across the other man's cheeks. Heero rises abruptly from the couch, the newspaper fluttering forgotten to the floor. He trips over the coffee table as he turns to go, staggering toward the stairs in a distinct rush. Duo drops the book into his lap with a huff.

"Are we ever gonna talk about this?"

Heero's foot freezes above the first step. He revolves slowly on his heel, a panicked wideness in his eyes, his mouth strung into a thin line. He lifts both of his brows in question. His eyes flicker to the window, to the door, searching for exits even when the danger isn't physical.

"Talk about what?"

If Duo hadn't known Heero for so many years now, he might have missed the quaver in his voice, the nervous twitch of his fingers. But Duo can read the uncertainty loud and clear, read the fear of the coming conversation. Duo tosses his hands up in exasperation.

"'Ro, c'mon. You're still with Tro but it's damn clear that there's still somethin' here."

Heero's face stiffens into emotionless lines. Planks of wood give more away than the frozen, stoic set of his jaw. He abruptly heads for the stairs, snapping a response over his shoulder without dignifying Duo with eye contact. "No. There's not. I have to go."

"Stop fuckin' running, Heero! We need to talk about this."

Suddenly Heero is striding across the room, fury fueling his movements until his eyes flash like blue diamonds – hard, dangerous. He pins Duo to the chair, one hand centered on his chest, the other braced on the arm, and leans in until the air hissing between his teeth flutters Duo's bangs. It takes everything in Duo not to cringe from the inherent danger in his tensed muscles, the lethal strength lying beneath Heero's skin. Instead, he bares his teeth and lets Shinigami rush to the fore, letting his battle rage meet Heero's anger snarl for snarl. He can't afford to back down when he's finally managed to find a crack in Heero's façade.

"I don't owe you a damn thing, Duo. You ran from me almost two years ago. You can't come back now and destroy what I've done my fucking best to fix. You can't."

Duo reaches up, grasping at the fabric of Heero's shirt. Fighting against the pressure of Heero's entrapping hand, he stretches forward until his lips brush against Heero's, just a ghost of a kiss. Heero slams him back down into the thankfully soft cushions, hands bearing down just beneath his collarbones until Duo is certain that there will be fingerprints bruised into his chest. Duo winces slightly as he hears the bones creak, hoping that Heero won't fracture their fragile lengths.

"_Fuck you,_ Duo! That's not fucking fair. You will not do this to me, not now!"

"Just love me again. That's all I'm asking," Duo pleads, eyes glittering with tears. He struggles against Heero's grip, his hands coming up to cup Heero's elbows, seeking any sort of contact with the other man.

"_I can't afford to!_"

Duo shrinks back into the chair as Heero screams, flecks of spit flying from his lips. Never in their entire friendship has he ever heard Heero so livid, so desperate. So broken. Heero's hands clench in his shirt, the fabric stretching alarmingly, and then his body is going limp, sinking to the ground at Duo's feet. His shoulders crumble inward, arms encircling his knees, and a harsh sob bursts from his chest. Heero pushes himself up far enough to look Duo in the eye, to force Duo to see the anguish written across his features. Duo presses a hand to his mouth, aching, at the naked agony on the face of the man he loves.

"Don't you get it?" Heero spits, choking on his tears. "You fucking _broke_ me, Duo. You shattered me. You don't get to come back and claim me again. It took everything in me to drag my pieces back together."

Duo is silent for a moment, muted by the realization of just how badly he had twisted Heero. Just how low his leaving had laid the once-great man. He reaches out to Heero, finger reaching for the silken strands of his former lover's hair. Heero jerks away from him, miles of hurt in his dark eyes, and Duo drops his hand, stung.

"I just… meant to let you forget me. I thought it would be easier."

"Yeah." Heero's laugh is bitter and harsh, like the crying of crows. He levers himself to his feet, painfully, swiping the tears from his face. There's no compassion in the razor wire of his lips as he glances down at Duo. "Too bad you succeeded."

When he moves to walk away again, Duo rises from the chair, pressing a hand to the bruises already forming on his skin, and places himself in Heero's path. "Don't leave like this." Heero shoves him out of the way, brutally apathetic to his slight frame staggering against the side of the couch. Duo sinks down, letting his body fold onto the arm. "Please."

Heero's stride falters at the defeat in the braided man's voice. He doesn't bother to face Duo, and Duo stares at his back, memorizing the drape of fabric over muscle. He's certain that this is the last time he'll ever see Heero. "I don't have anything to offer you, Duo. I don't know what else you want from me."

"I miss you," Duo whispers, though the words sound petulant and small in the tension laden room.

"You don't mean that," Heero responds shortly, though he doesn't continue to the stairs. He stalks over to the kitchen table, dragging a seat out with the ear-splitting screech of legs across tile, and sinks down onto the wooden surface. "Don't tell me you miss me because you're lonely. Tell me…" Heero drops his face into his hands, voice muffled by his palms. The words drip out of him, slowly. "Tell me you miss me because you can't sleep without me beside you. Tell me you wear a shirt that still smells of me on your days off. Hell, tell me you miss me because you still see my face when you come."

He lifts his head, leveling an icy stare at Duo's shaking form. Duo's heart sinks in his chest at the apathy in his soulmate's eyes. Heero shakes his head, lips twisting in disgust as he continues. "Don't take the easy way out. Don't come crawling back because you have no one else. Don't tell me you miss me just because you can't find anyone else to love you. I'm not a puzzle piece you can stick back into your life whenever you have an empty space."

"I know that, Heero. Don't you think I know that?" Duo laces his hands into his hair, yanking at the mahogany waves, wishing that the sting in his scalp would soothe the stabbing hurt in his chest. "My bunkmates on L2 complained 'cause I'd wake up screaming, afraid that you were dead. Then they hollered 'cause I'd wake up sobbing, afraid that you'd moved on. They made fun of me 'cause I slept in a ratty green shirt, laughin' that it was the only color I owned."

Duo scrutinizes Heero's face, wishing, praying that a spark will light in those desolate sapphire eyes. Wanting any hint of affection to dawn across that stone expression. There is no reaction. None. Duo might as well be pouring his heart out to the Mona Lisa. "'s not that I couldn't find someone. I coulda had anyone I wanted on that shithole. 's just that no one could squeeze into a hole shaped like you. No one fit."

Their eyes lock, but neither one of them speaks, staggered by the weight of a confession postponed for nearly two years. Two sets of eyes shimmer with moisture, tears tracking down both faces, but neither moves. The ghost of Trowa stands between them, solemn and still, the barrier Duo will never be able to surmount. He made his choice. He broke Heero's heart. He knew, walking away, that he would never be able to come back.

"Do you want me to leave?" Duo asks. He doesn't have anywhere else to go. He could stay in the Preventer barracks, as soulless and lonely as they were. It's Heero's house – he doesn't have any right to stay. Especially not if they're going to keep rubbing each other's hearts raw.

"No. No, there's no need for that… I know you don't have anywhere else to go. If… if it gets too bad, I'll go stay with Trowa."

Duo clenches his teeth around a scream. Jealousy swims in his stomach, rising into his throat like bile. He wishes it were someone else holding Heero's heart, someone he could hate. But Trowa is a good man, a man who's had a harder life than he deserved. He's earned his happiness. And after all, Duo reminds himself, he noticed that Trowa seemed content with his life now, more comfortable in his skin than he had been in years. He has no right to try and wrench that joy from his friend's grasp.

Heero offers him perhaps the saddest smile he's ever seen, rising from the kitchen chair. Padding over to Duo, Heero sweeps spiked bangs away from his face to press a painfully gentle kiss to his brow. Duo falls back onto the couch as Heero climbs the stairs to his bedroom, lying limply on his back as the searing heat of Heero's lips slowly fades. He listens to Heero move about the upstairs of the house, the water running as he brushes his teeth, the creak of his bedroom door closing.

The conversation runs through his mind again. He replays the intonation and the betrayal in Heero's eyes, the conflicted agony in the twist of his mouth. Duo tells himself that he should probably leave, should force himself off the couch and out the door. But if he runs again, if he slips out of the house like a departing ghost, he will never see Heero again. He knows this with a certainty that aches in his bones, the same certainty that informs him that no, Heero is never going to choose him.

He drew the line in the sand when he broke Heero's heart. He couldn't blame Heero for fixing the sand castle in the only way he knew. Couldn't blame Heero for moving on, as much as he wished that the Wing pilot had waited. And now that Heero has taken a stand on the side of Trowa Barton, he will never betray him. He will cling to Trowa until the world crumbles, regardless of how he feels for Duo, regardless of how much it hurts them.

He's still staring at the ceiling hours later as the sun begins to rise, flooding the room with a river of flame. The light dances across the kitchen, reminding him of a morning so long ago, a morning when he unwittingly destroyed his life.


End file.
